


Love Multiplied

by Ser Smut (Mimsy)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Blood and Gore, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Build, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4289079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimsy/pseuds/Ser%20Smut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor and King Alistair become close following the defeat of Corypheus. Tension then grows between the Inquisitor and Cullen, whose unresolved feelings cut into her new relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Garden Party

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm relatively new to writing public fanfiction, so this is a learning and growing process. Comments very welcome, and encouraged!

Their first meeting hadn't been a happy one.

It had been so long ago, but she could remember his face, stern and agitated, the hard line of his jaw set with tension. While his ire had certainly not been directed at her, ire was all on his mind that day.

Successive contact had come via the ravens, requesting aid in peace talks with Orlais and corruption in his own forces. The Inquisitor had helped readily where she could as she had always done, perhaps slightly more motivated for Cullen's sake. While he was wholly dedicated to the Inquisition and it's own sovereign nation that had sprung up around it, a small part of his heart would always belong to Fereldan, his home.

Cullen. The feelings she harbored for him had been kept a closely guarded secret, unwilling to complicate matters until Corypheus had been dealt with. Now that he had, she had been holding onto her feelings for so long that she wasn't entirely certain whether she could cross back across the expanse of friendship.

But this moment was not about Cullen, it was about their royal guest, Alistair.

From the moment he arrived, he'd been nothing but charming and engaging, an attractive force of good humor in the midst of the very serious forces of the Inquisition. He wielded his power with a flair, and made it look so easy. At the very least, he certainly seemed sure of himself. He'd cast a spell over the enthralled Inquisitor.

The first day it had been pomp and ceremony, feasting and the showy courtesy of Josephine's Antivan politics. The King handled himself well, if showing a low tolerance for the Game. She found it to be refreshing. Orlesians so ground on her nerves.

Their first genuine conversation would come in the wee hours of the morning in the gardens. She had excused herself after a night of drinking and merriment, finally growing bored when her last comrade disappeared from the event. The King had excused himself hours before, complaining of weariness from travel, so it was entirely unexpected to find him lying on a bench.

At first, she did not recognize him, head abuzz with drink in the cool night air and seeing as how he was dressed like a commoner. She thought it might have been some sauced party guest, and thus commented accordingly. "Well, now, you can't be one of mine. We hold our liquor better than that here," she teased, the slightest of slur between her words.

When he lowered his arm and sat up, she felt scarlet in her cheeks. She might have chosen a slightly different comment had she known she was speaking to royalty.

Alistair leaned back as he sat up, a jovial grin offered in response. "Is that how you had the guts to stand up to Corypheus? Sauced all the way? It must have been majestic."

With a sheepish laugh, she rubbed at the back of her neck, unable to meet his gaze. "Apologies, your Majesty. I didn't know it was you."

Inclining his head, he seemed pleased by this. "That was rather the point. I was hoping to not be recognized. Do you know how hard it is to find a moment of peace when everyone has their nose up your arse?" His eyes, jovial as they were, seemed a touch weary. "Besides, I couldn't sleep."

"Are your accommodations insufficient?" she asked politely, donning the mantle of Inquisitor for the sake of propriety.

His nose wrinkled in distaste. "I heard you a minute ago, you saucy rogue. Don't go all polite on me now. Or are you going to make me play that infernal Game?"

The Inquisitor considered him for several moments, shifting her weight uncomfortably. The alcohol swimming in her head, thrumming her body like a harp, she cast off propriety with her good posture, sinking onto the bench beside him. "Alright, then. Monarch to Inquisitor, we'll just treat one another like normal people. As much as I can manage, anyhow. Recent events have skewed my perception of normal."

Amused, he smirked in her direction. "What, you mean all that rot and Maker knows what with the ancient darkspawn Magister wasn't just what happens on a Tuesday? I suppose that's good news. I was dreading what Wednesday had in store."

Sneaking a flask from her boot, she took a swig before offering it to him. He accepted, downing the burning liquid like a man dying of thirst. "The only thing Wednesday ought to have in store is that flask."

"I'll drink to that!" Alistair laughed, taking another quick pull before passing it back. Briefly, he winced, pressing a fist to his chest. "Maker's breath. You weren't joking about the drink. That stuff is wicked strong."

"I get it from the Qunari," she beamed, proud of her acquisition. "what did Bull say? Ah yes, that it would 'put some chest on my chest.' It was right after we downed a dragon."

His brows lofted, clearly impressed. They sat in silence for a while, passing the flask back and forth until they both swayed under the heavy hand of intoxication.

"This is wonderful," he sighed, sinking lower on the bench, eyes falling shut. "May it-it never be said the Inquisition didn't offer the finest hospitality."

"Oh, it's been said. Mostly by Orlesians, I believe," she snorted.

They shared a hearty laugh, full-bellied and carefree. Dizzied by the alcohol and shaking in his laughter, he tipped over and into the Inquisitor, a hand reflexively reaching out to steady himself. The hand settled upon her breast, lingering there several moments before he realized where it was.

Their laughter died instantly, each turning crimson in mortification. The Inquisitor folded her arms over her chest protectively, clearing her throat and finding sudden interest in the royal elfroot beside the bench.

Alistair swore immediately, "Maker, I'm-I'm so sorry. It was completely by...oh, Maker," he groaned, face falling into his hands.

Glancing at him, she caught her lip between her teeth, eyes catching the moonlight on his hair before she looked away once more. "C-completely an accident, think nothing of it." In an attempt to lighten the mood, she quipped, "I'm certain many a fair maiden dreams of being groped by royalty."

At that he looked up, lips quirked upward, unsure whether to laugh, and entirely embarrassed. "Maybe, but I would never grope _you._ " As soon as the words left his mouth, he became panicked. "Maker, that makes it sound like…" Like she was repulsive. "I mean, you're lovely, and I would certainly grope you if you wanted…" he trailed off, terrified at the words falling from his mouth without thought. "Maker, Alistair, _shut it._ "

While awkward a moment before, the Inquisitor suddenly became entirely amused as he flailed helplessly, trying to right the situation and failing miserably. A knuckle pressed to her lips as she did her best to stifle her giggling. She thought she ought to say something to save the poor man, but all she said when she opened her mouth was, "I might like it if it were done on purpose."

She flushed as she said it, a tinge of regret coloring the emboldened excitement she felt at having said it. After all, she found him hopelessly charming and handsome, and alcohol made it so much easier to say things that might put her in an early grave in the morning light of clarity.

Alistair blushed clear through to his ears, his mortification muddied by amusement. "Ah. I er...I see. That's very…" Swallowing hard, he stood slowly, inclining his head to her politely. "Well, I suppose I've made a big enough fool of myself for one night. I do believe it's time to find a nice, quiet hole to crawl into. Goodnight, Inquisitor."

As he all but fled from her, she pressed a hand to her temple. Stupid. It was a stupid thing to say. What was she thinking, flirting so shamelessly with the King of Fereldan? Chalking up the night as a loss, she marched herself off to bed to sleep off the intoxication that was clearly clouding her better judgement.


	2. Giving It a Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan and Alistair decide to give things a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here comes the good stuff.

The following day saw the Inquisitor with Josephine, planning for the party at the week's end in celebration of their honored guests. Trevelyan felt that the nightly feasting had been party enough, but she knew there would be no persuading the Antivan of that. She was bombarded by information and consulted on several matters regarding decor. While she knew she could leave matters in Josie's hands and absolve herself, she knew that getting involved meant so much to her, and with all the hard work she'd put into the Inquisition, she felt Josephine deserved to coo and aww over a party.

"Fereldan decor is so plain and functional, but I think I've managed to give it a proper flair befitting any proper Antivan affair." Josephine had made the complaint before about Fereldans, but the Inquisitor had insisted on making the King and his entourage feel as at home as possible. Especially considering the tensions that still lingered between Fereldans and Orlesians, she felt it wouldn't do to have them surrounded by Orlesian decadence.

"I think it's going to be wonderful, Josie," she gestured, dismissing any concerns she might have. "You've got impeccable taste, and while I like the functional decor of Fereldans, I know how important it is to maintain appearances with the Orlesians. I'm just glad we can get so many of them in one room together."

"Thanks to you, Inquisitor. If we hadn't assisted in the peace talks…" she waved her quill, not wishing to think on it. "Well, at least we have more time to prepare for this than what I could barely cobble together on short notice for our victory after Corypheus."

"Josie, that party was perfect," she scoffed. "You're too critical."

"And you're too kind," she replied, not entirely convinced.

...

 

It was a lovely feast, full of wonderful food and good company. She rather liked Fereldans. They were so much more straightforward and honest, fiercely passionate and generally in good humor. Yet one in particular kept stealing her attention.

She would steal glances at King Alistair where she could, swooning at every crooked smile and gesture of his regal head. She was also quite careful to not be noticed, especially by her Commander. She almost felt guilty to be so entranced by another while still holding onto feelings for him, as though she were somehow betraying him. Yet there had been no progress on that front, and she didn't expect there to be. He was just so damn professional and courteous in her presence that she was certain that if he had ever been interested, he was no longer.

When Alistair retired for the evening once again, she found herself wondering if she might find him in the garden as she had several nights before. She was consumed by the thought, barely paying attention to Vivienne as she spoke.

"...don't you think so, my dear?" she asked, clearly annoyed that she was not being given the attention she felt she deserved.

"As you say," she murmured, distracted. Rising from her seat, she smiled apologetically. "I think I'll retire for the evening, actually. I'm a little tired."

"Hm," was all she got in response.

Making her way out of the party, she stopped by her chambers to put on more comfortable clothing. In a plain tunic and trousers, she strolled leisurely down to the gardens, not wanting to appear too eager to get anywhere should she run into anyone with the desire to stick their nose in her business.

When she stepped out into the lush greenery of the gardens, she found him waiting there, leaning back on a bench, legs crossed at the ankles, casually staring up at the sky. His gaze snapped down to her when he heard her approach, and he couldn't help the boyish grin tugging at his lips. "Inquisitor. I was rather hoping I'd see you here."

"Oh? Waiting for me, then?" she smirked.

A little color crept into his cheeks. "Perhaps. Do you make a habit of walking the gardens every night?"

It was her turn to color now, confidence wavering under shyness, then turning back to confidence. "No," she answered honestly. "Only when I hope to run into handsome Fereldan men."

Clearing his throat nervously, her forwardness caught him off guard. With a tittering laugh, he said, "I'll let you know if I see any." She found his deflection adorable, taking it as a sign that he was nervous. While she might have been concerned that his nervousness was a sign of him being uncomfortable and/or disinterested, she didn't think he'd be there in the gardens waiting for her if that were the case.

She felt emboldened. "I'm looking at one right now, in fact."

He leaned forward and stood, peering down at her now. "Maker's breath, you're _merciless_. If this is what Corypheus faced, it's no wonder he lost."

His proximity made her heart pound. Gesturing to one side, she offered, "A force of nature, I'm told. Care to walk with me? There's a lovely view from the battlements."

The king appeared skeptical for a moment, considering her offer. "I'm not entirely certain I should."

A lump of rock wedged itself in her chest. "Oh? I...did I read this wrong?"

Wincing, Alistair's eyes wandered over her, drinking in the sight of her. Longing wrestled with his doubts, and after several agonizing moments of silence, he explained, "Look. You're lovely. Beautiful. Radiant, I'd even say. We are clearly attracted to one another. Maker, I don't even remember the last time a woman has turned my head. I don't even know what I'm doing here." He paced now, looking everywhere but directly at her. "But it isn't simple, is it? Our positions…" He struggled for the words. "I don't think we can just let things happen. If we decide to pursue something, it ought to be intentional."

Sighing, she was loathe to admit he was right. They couldn't really just feel things out like normal people. Not the Inquisitor and the King. "I...hadn't thought much about that, to be honest, but you're right."

"It's a curse, being right all the time. No one likes you when you're always right," he smiled half-heartedly. "So I suppose I should ask what your intentions are. Is this just flirting, or is it going somewhere?"

The Inquisitor caught her breath as she thought on it. What did she want? Josephine had been after her about political marriages, using herself to form an alliance with another power. This couldn't be better in terms of that. Yet this was so new! It seemed ridiculous to think in terms of marriage when they'd only flirted a little, and hadn't even kissed. So did she just want to flirt? Eyeing him, she ruled that out. No, she definitely wanted more. So was this just a fling? A little side play to sate them both and then be on their way?

He grew nervous at her silence. "Er...hello? Inquisitor? You're terrifying me with this whole not-talking thing. I could really use an answer over here."

"Right!" she exhaled, worrying at the hem of her tunic. "Well, I think it isn't just flirting."

"Thank the Maker for that," he sighed in relief. "So what do you want, then?"

"Well," she pursed her lips. "I don't know what I want just yet. I just know that I genuinely like you. Would it really be so wrong to just see where it goes? Do things always need political consideration and arrangement?"

"Taking a _shit_ requires political consideration and arrangement," he practically spat. "But maybe you're right. Maybe we could. I mean, until we figure it out, we ought to keep it quiet, though."

Stepping closer, she experimentally tucked back a stray lock of his hair. "As you say, your majesty."

He swallowed, cheeks hot, unable to take his eyes off her lips. "You...you really ought to call me Alistair."

Her heart raced. Was she really going to do this? Try at something with the King of Fereldan? Feeling bold and daring, she moved closer still, hands coming to rest on his broad chest. "As you say, Alistair."

At his name on her lips, he enveloped her in his arms, stepping back and turning to sweep her off her feet, one arm supporting her at the waist, the other at the back of her head. Dizzied and caught off guard by the motion, her eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp. They were quickly covered by his own, tender and firm. She melted in his arms, clinging to his collar as though she might fall.

When they parted lips, he grinned wickedly. "As I say, then."

For one who'd seemed so bashful moments before, she certainly hadn't expected the level of boldness she was receiving now. By the thundering in her chest, she certainly liked it. Searching his eyes and finding them lidded with desire, she tugged at his collar, pulling him roughly into another kiss.

Lips parted and tongue dallied, exploring eager mouths and delving for the flavor of the other. Her back arched into him, lithe form shifting and wriggling in this grasp. Groaning, he pulled her tighter to his chest, forcing an exhale as she was crushed against him. Gasping in for air, she tipped her head back. He wasted no time in breaking from her lips to kiss down her chin, hot mouth enclosing on her throat.

"W-we ought to be careful in the garden," she gasped out, choking back a mewling cry as he sucked hard at where her neck joined her shoulder. "If you want to-to keep this...ah!"

He growled at her throat, slowly releasing her and tipping her back up to her feet. He held her still, chest heaving as he caught his breath and came back to his senses. "M-maker. That was dangerously nice. I...I don't really want to stop."

Lofting a brow, she was all mischief as she peered up at him. "I'm no virgin. I don't need to wait."

Peering down at her, he looked vexed. "Sweet Maker. But we've only known one another a short while…"

Second guessing herself, she bit her lip. "Ah. Well, yes, but...I mean, it's alright. Isn't it? If you don't want to, I can wait."

The King considered her, conflicted on what to do. It seemed like the proper, respectful thing to do, to wait a while. After all, he had just been preaching about how they needed to think things through.

But he didn't want to think things through anymore. The growing tension between his legs spoke to him in very convincing tones, and it was with great and uncharacteristic impulse that he clenched a fist, a sort of mad defiance settling onto his features. "Maker, I can't believe I'm saying this, but sod it. Blight take me, I want you. We're consenting adults, we aren't promising forever. Let's take this for ourselves."

"Exactly," she practically squealed. "When we give the world so much, we ought to seize our own happiness where we can!"

"Alright, my Lady," he purred, nervous excitement causing him to shift where he stood. "Then let's seize it. For once, I want to take instead of give."

"Alistair!" she cried, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Just go back to your room. I'll meet you there. It's the easiest way to be discreet." With that she pulled away from him, walking backwards towards the door. "One hour."

He watched her leave, a hand grasping his trousers and adjusting the fabric over the tightness he was bound in. He couldn't believe he was going through with this. Yet...something about the naughtiness of it, the rush, the impropriety...it made for a heady, intoxicating brew. Even if this all turned out to be a terrible idea, he knew that in that moment, this was exactly what he wanted, and damn the consequences.

...

The wait in his chambers was agony. He had paced back and forth, deliberating on whether or not he ought to be clothed when she arrived. Propriety demanded that he start clothed, that they should maintain some semblance of dignity of position. Yet a wild, daring, and adventurous part of himself he was quickly discovering urged him to be bold. To do things he would not have otherwise dreamed of.

Maker, what did she do to him? This was madness.

He stripped quickly like a man possessed, flinging clothes into the corner before he lost his nerve and changed his mind. Once stark naked, he stood in the center of the room, eye his options of where to wait. He wanted to appear as daring as she, tantalizing and provocative. Perhaps to prove he was daring in ways his racing heart was trying to convince him he was not. Should he wait in the chair, sitting high and regal, taking an air of command? Or should he wait in bed, allowing them to fall into one another like animals the moment she arrived? Perhaps on the rug in front of the fireplace? That one seemed traditionally romantic.

While his first choice was the bed, when he lay on it he immediately felt silly. As time wore on and he waited for her to arrive, his nerve started to fail him. Naked as he was, he felt strangely vulnerable all of a sudden, and eventually came to the conclusion that it was all madness. He swung his legs off the bed and retreated, moving to the corner to collect his clothes to dress himself again. Nudity was too bold for him.

He did not, however, get the chance. Just as he picked up his tunic, she arrived, slipping in through the window of all places. He whirled as he heard her slip in, startled by her entry. He held his tunic strategically over his loins, suddenly embarrassed.

"My, my, your Majesty, aren't we eager," she teased, approaching him but stopping several feet away. Her own heart was pounding in anticipation, more bold than she'd ever been before. And that was saying something.

"Yes, eager and terrified," he admitted, clinging to the scrap of cloth offering him a shred of dignity. "I've...never been so forward before."

"Neither have I," she smiled as though she hadn't a care in the world. "But I want to now. If you still do." She grasped the hem of her tunic, tugging it up and off her head to reveal she was wearing no underclothes. Full, rounded breasts were kissed by the cool air of the room, taut nipples pleading for attention. Unlacing her trousers, they were too soon discarded, until she stood entirely nude before him, arms crossed over her belly.

If he had doubts before, they quickly dissipated. "Oh Maker," he sighed, dropping his tunic at the sight of her. Appreciative eyes wandered, taking it all in.

Opening her arms, she beckoned to him. "Alistair...I'm cold. Come warm me up."

"Gladly," he breathed. Closing the gap between them, he swept her up into his arms to deposit her carefully on the bed. She could feel his heart beating hard in his chest, nervous excitement fluttering like a bird.

Hands in his silken, strawberry blonde hair, she pulled down for their lips to meet, mouths parting to accept one another. Warm, firm skin specked with the scars of battle met sunkissed, freckled, malleable flesh, molding themselves around one another, reshaping as they came together and apart again. Roaming hands worshipped as they learned the temples of their bodies, fingertips pressing into the coffers.

Pressing hands to his chest, a mischievous Trevelyan turned them over with a giggle, landing her atop him. Their cores pressed together, eliciting moans from them both. Alistair bucked himself against her, grinding against the heat of her folds, head meeting clit. The Inquisitor silenced her cry by sinking her teeth into his shoulder with gentle but firm pressure, enough to make him hiss through his teeth, but not bruise or draw blood.

Lips fluttered down his neck, over his throat, down his chest. She shifted back until her nose met his length, sandalwood and musk greeted her. She breathed deep, tongue seeking its own experience of the sweet scent. It was salt and sweat, and something unmistakably Alistair.

His gaze burned into hers when their eyes met, hot breath over him, all aflame. "Maker's breath," he hissed between his teeth. The anticipation he felt with her hovering just over him, all flicks of the tongue and kisses of breath. She knew she was building the ache in him with light teasing and promises of hot, welcoming warmth.

And then, she delivered all she promised. When she drew him into her mouth he watched, eyes watering at the overwhelming sensation. "Andraste preserve me," he muttered, chest heaving with labored breath. He tried not to thrust into her, and let her work at her own pace, hands fisting in the bedding.

What length she could not take in, she compensated for with her hand, pumping in time with her mouth, wrist rotating for her palm to glide over him, slickened by her saliva.

When he seemed near his edge, breath hitched and hips rolling, she would stop. "Not yet, you." She shifted back up, beginning to position herself over him.

As much as he wanted to sink into her, he did not. With a throaty, playful hum, he reached down to grasp her backside, flipping them back over. He ached, but he so desperately wanted to taste her. Trevelyan giggled as he shifted down on the bed, peering up at her like a trickster spying over a fence. "Turnabout is fair play, my Lady," his lip quirked into a smirk.

She hooked her legs over his shoulders as his full lips lowered, pressing kisses over her mound and down to her already slickened sex. Broad hands anchored down her hips, as she had been squirming about. His tongue collected the dew of her folds, lapping up her nectar. He then gently flicked over her apex, rewarded by an appreciative hum.

Setting at her button in earnest, he sucked it into his mouth, tip of his tongue tapping. As the slippery thing escaped him, he took instead to rolling his tongue firmly across it, flicking and rolling at a quickening pace.

"Alistair!" she cried urgently, fingers intertwining with his hair, fisting and tugging at it. Spurred on, he doubled his effort, head bobbing as he fell into a rhythmic pace, the texture of his tongue sending sparks of delicious friction down to her toes.

Her mewling turned to quick, rasping gasps, pressure building, tension pooling. Then, all at once, it burst with such strength that he found it difficult to keep her hips pinned down as she rocked against his face, pulling his head against her. He waited for the tide to roll out, waited until the waves settled to silence.

Then he moved upward, claiming her mouth. She was startled by her own flavor at first, but quickly adjusted, tongue seeking to lap up her own juices from his mouth.

With a low growl, he set his broad hands at her hips, roughly pulling her down and adjusting himself at her opening. At this, she sat up, possessively pushing him back to seize control back from him. As he fell back, she set a hand on his chest as though to hold him down, raising onto her knees. Taking a hold of his still painfully erect shaft, she lowered herself onto it slowly.

It had been years since she had been with a man, evidenced by the tightness Alistair found himself wading through. Where she silently bit her lip, he let slip something between a groan and a sigh, fingertips trailing up her sides to cup her breasts.

When he was hilted, she raised herself once more, relishing the slow friction against her inner core. As she adjusted, her pace quickened, hips rolling against him to claim him, to take him in over and over.

"Maker," he nearly snarled. Sitting up without removing himself, he wrest control back, flipping her onto her back. He pistoned into her at a frantic pace, already near climax. After her earlier attention, he had already been worked up into a near fit, leaving him with little stamina left when met with such tight, soft, wet, aching heat. He hilted himself one last time with a loud cry, then jerked himself out, ropes of semen painting her belly.

It had not quite been long enough for her to find a second orgasm, but she would make him fix that later. For now, they collapsed together, recovering and intertwined in one another.

"Right. Well. Then I suppose I'll have to give into impulse more often, if it turns out like that," Alistair finally spoke, lips at her ear as he lazily half-draped himself over her while she lie on her back.

"Oh, I wish you would," she laughed, turning to press a kiss to his forehead. "That was lovely. Thank you for being so deviant, your Majesty."

"Considering what we just did, being called that is weird. It feels dirty, in a way," he wrinkled his long nose in distaste.

"That's what makes it fun!" she replied cheerfully.


	3. Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair returns home, the new lovers separated by their positions.

After that, they stole away moments where they could. After all, his visit only lasted a few more days. They talked, they made love, and then they rutted like animals. It would always be in his chambers, and she would always come in through the window.

While the party was grand at the end, she felt deeply troubled that her newfound lover would soon be departing. After all, he did have his own kingdom to run.

And so while there was merriment and dancing, the Inquisitor sat sullenly at her table, unable to spend these last moments in his company. While she certainly understood it was best not to advertise their relationship until they were certain of its direction, it was maddening to see him across the room, dashing and handsome in his fine furs and leathers, and completely unable to touch him. What little conversation they could have was polite and cordial.

It was Leliana that would approach her now, looking for all the world rather too smug for the Inquisitor's liking. "You seem down, Inquisitor. Are you not enjoying the party?"

Touching the dimples in her cheeks, she would force a smile. "What, no, I'm the picture of fun! The party is marvelous. I've danced with no less than three gentlemen, and one of them was rather good at dancing."

"I see. It is a shame when one cannot dance with the partner they wish to, no?" she spoke lower now, eyes darting in the general direction of the king, gesturing without moving her head to be obvious.

Of course she knew. The Inquisitor expected no less of her spymaster, after all. "Yes, well, erm…" Trevelyan blushed, visibly sinking into her chair. "One must persevere, I suppose."

"I've never seen him so happy," Leliana shared her observation, her tone wistful. "Or at least, not for a long time."

She had forgotten they had once been traveling companions, ten years ago when the blight threatened the world, beginning and ending in Fereldan. "Since the hero?" the Inquisitor was whispering to her now, as the conversation grew increasingly private.

"Yes, but that is a conversation for another time." It was left at that as her spymaster nodded to her, slipping away with a knowing smile.

...

The party eventually ended, Inquisitor and King found their final night together, and the following morning was sullen as they dressed themselves.

Alistair lie naked on his bed as she dressed herself, readying to leave before dawn came and made all the sneaking about quite a bit harder. Her movement was slow, clearly troubled that it had all come to an end so fast. Silence hung between them for a time, hearts too heavy to speak.

When she finished lacing her boots and stood, she stopped, shoulder slack and glaring at the window she knew she must leave from as if it were its fault things were the way they were.

"I'm...missing you already, and you haven't even left yet," the Fereldan murmured, suddenly behind her, lips on her shoulder. "While I admired you before here, meeting you in person has been...I just...Maker, I'm rubbish at this."

She turned into an embrace, head resting on his shoulder. "Why must we be so important?" she sighed. Comfort found her as strong arms encircled, cradling her gently.

"Because the Maker seems to have a terrible sense of humor," he answered. "You know I'll write to you. Perhaps under some pen name. Like Sten."

"I suppose. That, and I'll have to find some excuse to see you again," her fingers drew circles over his broad back, memorizing every sinew to keep him when he left. "Perhaps you have some lingering Venatori corruption in your ranks that I shall have to investigate personally."

"You know, we do have this fellow in the kitchens with a lazy eye, and I'm positive he's evil. Or he's always glaring at any rate. At least I think he is. Hard to tell with the eye and all that." Pulling back to peer into her face, he smiled gently. "We'll think of something. I'll throw a grand ball and invite Orlesians and everything if that's what it takes."

"Goodness, you do like me, if you'd be willing to sit through that torture just to see me," she stuck her tongue out.

"I'm as shocked as you, believe me," he laughed. Pulling her close one last time, he pressed his lips to hers. "Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone."

With one last lingering kiss, she pulled away from him, gaze cast over her shoulder as she moved to the window. Climbing up onto the sill, she vanished into the night.

...

The weeks following the King's departure were painful. Previously, she had never felt very alone with her friends and forces around, but now solitude glared at her, chasing at her heels like a dog. Her melancholy must have been noticeable, as several attempts were made to cheer her. Cole would leave her flowers on her windowsill, Dorian would chat her up over drinks in the library, and the Chargers, bless their indomitable spirits, would take her to the tavern and get her sauced, singing and carrying on all the while.

It would work for a time, putting a spring in her step until it left her hungover.

What cheered her the most were the notes. Generally once per week she would receive a message directly from Leliana's hands, from a certain royal admirer. The first one had been a surprise, as she had half expected him to put her from his mind when he'd returned home. Apparently, he had not.

_My lovely lady,_

_I can't stop thinking about you. I dream of you at night, and it's pretty disappointing when I wake up to an empty bed. I thought about stuffing a pillow and trying to draw your face on it, but that would be really strange, and rather creepy._

_I hope you haven't forgotten about me._

_Yours,_

_A_

_P. S. Hello, Leliana._

Every note she received she would lock in a little box beside her bed, keeping the key on a necklace she never removed. She would often write him back, trusting her responses only in her spymaster's hands, who was all too happy to oblige, considering how beneficial an official union between them would be.

_My handsome ser,_

_I have not forgotten you. How could I? You're always in my thoughts and it drives me starkers._

_Just you wait until I get my hands on you again._

_Yours,_

_LT_

...

It would be a month and a half before correspondence arrived to inform her of an opportunity to meet once more. A grand ball was to be held in Denerim, in honor of the improved relations with their Orlesian neighbors. The Inquisition (and Inquisitor) were requested to attend as honor guard, ensuring the safety of all involved. After all, there was lingering tension between them, and it would be best to have impartial parties there as a buffer for any guests with strong opinions.

"Oh, Alistair," she muttered under her breath. "You really did get desperate."

"What was that?" Cullen leaned closer to her, eyes searching.

"Oh, nothing, just another droll affair we ought to attend. We certainly can't miss an opportunity to help our good neighbors make nice. I shall attend with a small entourage," she declared to her advisors, reclining in a chair in the war room. For a "droll affair", she certainly didn't look like she was dreading it.

"It's about time they started playing the Game," Josephine gestured, clearly pleased. "It will do so much to further true peace in the eyes of Orlais."

"A Fereldan ball? And they're inviting the Orlesians? Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world," Leliana laughed, casting a knowing glance at the Inquisitor. She knew exactly why this ball was happening, and she was clearly tickled at the idea.

"Then it's settled. We'll go to the ball," Cullen leaned over the war table, though his gaze was intent on the Inquisitor.

Trevelyan's eyes went wide in shock. "Cullen, you want to go to the ball? But you hate dancing. And the Game. And...well, everything to do with them."

Straightening, as though injured, he defended, "Yes, but I ought to go anyhow. Like it or not, I'm a political figure and this is how politics are played."

Lip quirking into a smile, the Inquisitor nodded. "Alright, then. We'll all go to the ball. And I do believe that concludes our business for today."


	4. Reunions and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Trevelyan reunite, and Alistair surprises her.

The month passed slowly as she counted the days until she could see her lover once again. The notes certainly helped to pass the time, little reminders that she was always in his thoughts. She responded to every one. Though they could not see one another, keeping in touch helped to foster the closeness they already felt.

After what seemed like years, they finally arrived in Denerim. They were guests of the King, and thus invited to stay in the palace. The Chargers opted to stay in the city instead, preferring less stifling accommodations.. After they settled in, they were all taken to the dining hall for supper to dine with King in greeting.

When their eyes met, it felt electric. Butterflies danced in her belly, even as a dull, burning flame consumed below. They greeted one another appropriately and politely, just as they greeted others present. Prominent Orlesian nobles were in attendance, those that had arrived early for the ball. It was said that Empress Celene would even be in attendance at the ball itself, though would not linger long.

Getting through dinner was agonizing. Even there, the Game started, conversation turning from inane and pointless to intrusive and analyzing. The Inquisitor handled it as well as she could, managing to stay ahead enough to not embarrass herself, though was no master.

All through dinner she was so focused on watching Alistair from the corner of her eye that she never noticed Cullen's steady gaze upon her.

...

In a kind gesture and a vested interest in the safety of the King, the Chargers had been arranged to be in charge of guard duty to the King's room that night. It had been to the dismay of the Guard Captain, but was convinced of conceding the post when the Chargers had been presented as security specialists, skilled in the defense against foreign threats. Not that they could deny the change in guard if the King appointed it. Still, best not to step harder on toes than necessary.

She had confided in Bull and Krem about her relationship to the king, knowing they could keep their mouths shut and help out. As she came to the King's door, she was glad to not have to sneak about any longer. After all, the strange and foreign castle seemed like a damn maze, and infiltration was damn difficult when you had a hard time finding your way around.

"Hey, Boss," Bull waved, looking up from the cards in his hand. They had set up a little table in the hallway, amusing themselves to pass the time.

"Boss," Krem nodded.

"Bull. Krem," she smirked, strolling to the door. "You know if the Guard Captain sees you playing cards, he's going to have a fit."

Bull inclined his head, clearly unconcerned. "If he sees us. Dalish has a warning system set up. Handy to have a mage around."

From around a corner, a distant, small voice cried out, "It's a _bow!_ "

Bull ignored it. "Anyway, we've got things handled out here. You go have fun."

"Thank you, Bull."

"Boss, you're paying me way too much money for this. Believe me, it's no problem."

Stifling a giggle, she pressed into the room, quickly locking the door behind her. The moment she turned around, a strong body collided with hers, pinning her roughly against the door. A thick and muscled leg parted her, firm against her groin. A hot mouth was over hers, taking advantage of a startled gasp to plunge in a hungry tongue. She sighed into the kiss, melting against the wood.

When the kiss broke, Alistair took her hand, drawing her towards the bed. His quarters were enormous, though fairly plain in decor. Several dressers and armoires dotted the walls, along with tapestries. Another door was opposite the room, presumably leading to a bathing chamber. A large fireplace cast a warm glow over the room, turning the plain chambers into something much more welcoming. His sizable bed was covered in furs and blankets, neatly made. Beside the bed was a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I brought wine," he began explaining as he pushed her onto his bed. She laid back, hands reacquainting themselves his his chest, his shoulders, coming then to fumble at his tunic. "I was going to be so romantic. We would talk." He removed the offending garment for her, working at her clothing immediately afterward in quick, frantic, jerking motions. "Have a drink. Then I'd take you to bed. I find myself unable to wait for the last part, so we're skipping ahead."

They tore off the remainder of their clothing, crashing together once it had come undone. Tongues wrestled, drinking one another in, starved in the months they'd been apart. When he broke their kiss, it was to turn her onto her belly and tug her hips upwards, raising her rounded backside into the air.

Pushed forward thusly, she found her face in his pillows, his scent enveloping her like a warmth blanket. She had been so deprived for months and now he was all around her, seeping into all her senses, driving her mad.

Hot breath over her backside, he pressed feverish kisses across her bottom, trailing his way to her sex. He buried his face in her, long nose pressed to the tight, little pucker of her anus, tongue broad and firm over her folds. His thumbs pried her open, tongue dipping into the deepest places it could reach, drawing out every ounce of her nectar he could reach.

She whimpered beneath him, writhing under his touch. "A-alistair!" she cried when he settled over her button, sucking hard at the thing, nose caressing as his head rocked. He was relentless in his assault, and anticipation combined with the overwhelming stimulation proved to be too much. Heat and tension coiled into a spring, tight and wound, until it was released.

She bucked hard back against his face, his long nose dipping into her opening, thoroughly coating his face with her juices. Allowing her no time to recover, he pressed himself against her, slickening himself in the aftermath of her orgasm, then plunged himself in.

He rolled his hips forward in slow, languid motions at first, grinding himself roughly into her core. She was so warm around him it nearly burned, and he found himself with little patience that evening. Soon he was hilting himself at frantic speeds, his hips colliding with her rear in a series of loud slaps.

One arm coiled around her waist, reaching down slide his fingers over her button, pressing firm circles around her engorged head. His full weight pressed into her back as his other hand slid up her belly to seize a breast, rolling and pinching her nipple between his large fingers.

Trevelyan found herself in the throes of another orgasm, her muscles clamping down on his length, coaxing him to his own completion. Roaring out his release, he pulled himself from her, spilling himself across her backside.

They fell to their sides, Alistair coiled around her, pressed to her back. When he caught his breath, his lips pressed kisses to her shoulder blades, murmuring against her skin, "Maker, I missed you so much."

She turned to face him, draping a leg over his hips to pull him closer. "I still can't believe you're entertaining Orlesians just to see me."

"You had better appreciate it. This whole affair with the ball is going to be _terrible_ ," he groaned. "They're like spiders. Makes you want to set the whole palace on fire and build a new one somewhere else."

Laughing, she pressed kisses all over his face. "Oh, Alistair! If you take your arms off me tonight I'll attend your ball naked to embarrass you."

"No, see, now I'm confused. That makes me want to do it just to see that."

"Try it," she buried her face in his chest, inhaling the rich scent she'd come to love.

Humming his laughter, he conceded, "I hear it is unwise to cross the Inquisitor. I'll behave."

Coiled against one another, they let wandering hands re-familiarize themselves. Finally content in ways they hadn't been in months, they both felt able to relax at long last.

"My sweet," Alistair suddenly adopted a strange tone. "I have to ask. What has happened with your Commander?"

"What?" she asked. "Cullen?"

"Yes," he murmured into her hair. "Did something happen?"

Perplexed, her brow creased in a frown. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Because he was staring at you all night. A bit like a mabari staring at a steak." Alistair shifted down to peer into her lovely eyes, wanting to read her face as they spoke. "Scarcely took his eyes off you. It made me wonder, if…"

"No! Goodness, no," she felt a tightness in her chest, anxious about speaking about the Commander to her lover.

"You sound upset," he observed, brow knitting in worry.

"No…" she scowled, unable to look him in the eye.

"My dear," he spoke in a scolding tone. "You're not telling me something, and it injures me."

"I…" she bit her lip nervously. "I might have had some feelings for him."

"Had?" Alistair shot her a dubious look.

"Have! Maker, how do you _do_ that!" she grimaced.

"It's a talent. With you, anyway," he muttered. "So. You have feelings for him."

"You...you aren't upset?" she searched his face.

"Strangely enough, I'm not," he scowled, clearly perplexed by it himself. "Which I find odd, because my feelings for you are...rather sincere. But I want to know more."

Heat settled in her cheeks, face flushed in embarrassment. "Oh. I've never...this is new." Drawing in a deep breath, she sighed. "I...I have had feelings for Cullen for some time. I think at one point he had feelings for me, but we were at war, and it would have made things so complicated-"

"Oh, he's still interested. I know that look," he smirked.

"He...he what?" she was bewildered.

"You daft girl," he chided gently, tapping her nose. "Anyone with eyes ought to be interested in you."

"Well...I suppose it's too late anyway," she said sullenly, curling into his chest as though she were suddenly cold.

"Is it?"

"I...perhaps? Maybe I'm being too presumptuous about our relationship," she felt a sudden urge to retreat. "I thought…"

Alistair propped himself up on his elbow, knuckles stroking her soft cheek gently. "No, I...I care for you a great deal. I don't want this to end. I just…" his gaze fell as he struggled for the words. "I just...somehow...don't mind if you...wanted us both." He blushed, sheepish as he spoke. "The Commander is a good man, and I believe he would treat you well, which is all I can ask for. If there's anything I've learned in life, it's to take hold of whatever happiness you can find. Maker knows you'll never know how long you'll have it."

"Alistair!" her mouth fell agape, shocked at what he was suggesting. "Are...are you certain? I mean, I don't really know if he even really…"

His lips touched to hers reassuringly. "Oh, I'm certain on both counts. That man has it bad."

This was a lot to consider for the Inquisitor. Mind reeling, she tucked herself into her lover, thinking on what he'd said. "I...I have to ask one more time. Are you sure? I couldn't bear to lose you."

"I'm certain, but there is a condition," he said quite seriously.

"What?"

"Never lie to me about it," his tone was stern. "I want us to be honest with one another."

"Yes! Yes, of course," she set a hand on his face, searching his eyes. "Maker, do you have any idea how lucky I feel to be with you?"

"Likely as lucky as I feel to be with you," he beamed. "So when will you talk to him?"

Heart pounding, she heaved a sigh, eyes wide and she considered it. "Andraste preserve me. What am I going to _say?_ "

"I find it's most helpful to start with 'hello', and then make it up as you go from there," he cocked a brow, mocking in his crooked smile.

"But...but...I mean, I'll have to tell him about us!" she stammered, mind reeling. "Maker, he's...he'll never want to speak to me again after that."

"Aren't you deciding his answer for him? That's hardly fair to the poor man." Sitting up, he slid himself off the bed, taking in hand the wine bottle to unstop it. "Wine?"

"Maker, yes," she groaned, hands pressing to her face. "He's going to think I'm _deviant._ "

Alistair poured them both glasses of wine and returned to bed. "My lady, you _are_ deviant. I can certainly vouch for that."

She sat up to accept the glass, downing half its contents instantly. Setting the glass to the side afterwards, she refocused upon him, mischievous, half-lidded eyes drinking him in as he lie there, reclining attractively over furs and pelts, wine bringing a blush to his cheeks and a stain to his lips. "You certainly enable my deviance. I'll speak to Cullen, you wicked man. Now enough about him. I haven't seen you in months, and I'm not nearly half done saying hello."

He drained his wineglass quickly, setting his own glass to the side. "You certainly don't have to tell me twice. I've still got your scent on my face, and it's driving me mad."


	5. Highly Unusual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen confesses his feelings to Trevelyan, with results he did not expect.

Two days passed, slow and tedious during the day, wild and passionate by night. While she was ecstatic to be spending time with Alistair, she was heavy and wrought with dread at the prospect of speaking to Cullen. There were times when she doubted her sanity, wondering if she was mad to be considering such things. Her imagination ran wild in those moments, anticipating everything from polite distaste to him becoming so distraught he quit his post and abandoned the Inquisition altogether.

Then Alistair’s voice would be in her head, loving and encouraging, pushing her towards hope. Of course, this usually led to lips in her ear, whispers at her throat, the thought of him filling her, hands shaping her like a sculptor. Maker, she felt so lucky to have him.

“Inquisitor,” a voice would beckon her from her thoughts as she roamed the halls. 

“ _Maker_ ,” she pleaded, more breathy exhale than spoken word. It was Cullen. Shyly, she turned to face him, cheeks immediately burning, eyes downcast. “Ah...hello, Commander.”

There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke, a gloved hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Are you busy at the moment?”

All she could hear was the thundering of her own heart in her ears. Risking a glance upward, she found his own eyes to be cast to the side, expression rather sullen. “No. I was just heading to the kitchen for a bite to eat,” she replied.

“There’s a cafe in the city that I was considering going to, if you...ah...care to join me?” he looked to her now, brows raised and lips slightly parted in a nervous smile. 

Her heart twisted in her chest as she caught his gaze, finding the cautious optimism in his expression rather adorable. Maker, Alistair had been right. He was interested. But would he remain so after she told him?

And then it sank in. If she went, they would be alone. No business to occupy them, no Inquisition to run. Just two people sharing a friendly meal and...now she was panicking. Should she accept and talk to him now? Perhaps it was the right time. That was, if she didn’t turn tail and flee with all her might. Which was, in fact, what she desired to do most. 

She must have looked rather panicked at the invitation, as his expression suddenly seemed pained. His gaze wavered and fell, hope turning to utter defeat. “Or perhaps you’d prefer-”

Realizing that she’d been staring at him stupidly instead of answering, she cried out a little too loudly, “Yes!” The near shout of her answer startled him, eyes widening in response. She winced, then continued at a more appropriate volume. “I mean, yes. That sounds lovely. Have you...invited anyone else along?”

“No, I…” though he offered a crooked smile, his eyes seemed rather distraught. “I suppose I could see if any of the others would like to come along.”

_Stop being a ninny and talk to him_ , Alistair’s voice nudged at the back of her mind. 

She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, calming her nerves. When they opened, she smiled sweetly, trying her best not to show any of the terror she felt. “I don’t believe that’s necessary. I think it would be quite nice if it were just the two of us.” Maker, this was it. She was going to talk to him.

Relief and elation melted the worry from his face. Offering her a suddenly roguish grin, he offered his arm. “Then shall we?”

A small hand slid under his arm, fingers curling over his bicep, marveling at the lean, muscled feel of him, even through his jacket. If her face were not already flushed and warm, it certainly was after that. 

She still couldn’t believe she was doing this. She prepared herself for the worst.

They began walking at a slow and meandering pace. Eager to fill the silence with something, anything, she decided to make polite small talk. “So how is it being back in Fereldan?”

He seemed thankful for a topic to discuss, visibly exhaling in relief. “Rather nice, actually. I never know how much I miss it until I return. I suppose I keep myself so busy that I don’t leave myself much time to think about it.”

“Have you spoken with your family?”

“I…” he looked guilty now, his free hand at his neck once more. “...keep meaning to.”

“Cullen,” she chided, glancing up at him. 

Groaning, he threw his hand in the air, exasperated. “I know, I know.”

She opened her mouth to say something, ask something, then snapped it shut, lost for words. What ought she ask about next? If he’d played any chess recently? She knew he hadn’t. Aside from that, she was so eager to get to the actual substance of what she wanted to say that idle chat eluded her. It was situations like these that made her realize she’d never master the Game.

When they stepped outside, they were greeted with brilliant sunlight, offensive at first. She squinted against the light as she adjusted to it, taking in the impossibly blue spring sky. The air was rich and earthy, nothing at all like Orlais, which was so perfumed it made her head ache. She drew in a deep, appreciative breath, sighing it out happily. 

“It’s a...nice day,” Cullen muttered to her, feeling the awkwardness of the silence that had come between them.

“Yes, I...suppose it is,” she strained a smile. 

There were several long moments of silence before he would speak again, his tone dropping low. She could feel him tensing as she held his arm. “Erm. So…”

“Yes?” she sounded a little eager.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he tensed further. She got the impression that he desired to flee as much as she did. She half expected a confession of feelings, from the way he was acting. 

How right she was.

“I...I’ve been wanting to speak to you for some time,” he started, hand at his neck. “It’s taken some time to work up the nerve to say anything. I had planned on telling you after Corypheus, but things have taken more time to settle than I’d imagined.”

Maker, here it was. He was confessing his feelings. Anxiety and apprehension stirred illness into her belly, her racing heart a burden in her breast.

He continued, painfully aware of her silence. “I…” He stopped, turning to face her. Large hands enclosed over the hand she’d had on his arm, and the world fell away around them. “I care for you. You were there for me when I nearly fell back into lyrium, and I don’t know that I would have been strong enough to persevere without your support. You’re the most brave and caring person I’ve ever met and I…” His voice lowered, straining against his anxiety. “...I was wondering if you might ever feel the same for me.”

Terror pried down her bottom lip, holding her mouth agape. Eyes wide and anxious, she found herself peering over her shoulder, examining the area around them. What she had to say in response was unspeakably private, and it could prove awkward for both herself and Alistair if word got out prematurely. Surveying this, she spotted an alley that seemed to have few to none traversing it. There. She would move them over there and tell him everything.

Cullen could not read her mind. He could not tell she was looking for a more private place to speak. All he could see was her panic, and what appeared to be a very apprehensive Inquisitor looking for a way away from him. Slowly releasing her hand, he pressed fingers to the bridge of his nose, shattered by his interpretation of the situation. When she did not answer, he filled in the blank.

“I...see. Maker, I’m a fool,” he murmured bitterly.

Snapping her attention back to him, she hurriedly took his hand, tugging gently to lead him towards the alley. “What? No! I just want more privacy. I see a spot. Just...come over here so we can discuss this.”

Skeptical, but now a little hopeful, he followed to where she led them. Moving nigh halfway down, she peeked about. There was no one nearby, it seemed.

Now alone, she released his hand in favor of wringing her own hands together. He watched her intently, eager yet terrified of what she was about to say. Taking a deep breath, she started with what he needed to hear. “Cullen, I do care for you. Very much.”

Relief washed over his face, and he couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. He set his large hands to hers to still their wringing, drawing himself closer to her. “I had hoped for...Maker, I wasn’t certain if…” he trailed off as he studied her face, growing apprehensive at the guilt and worry in her eyes and in the pout of her lips.

“There’s more. You...are not the only person I care for,” she admitted, fingers curling into nervous fists in his grasp. 

“Who?” was all he could ask, uncertain of what to make of it.

“It’s...Alistair,” she swallowed hard. “I...we’ve been seeing one another.”

“So it...cannot be, then,” his brows furrowed, hands retreated from her. 

“Well, that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I mentioned my feelings for you to Alistair, and…” she took to wringing her hands again, uncertain of what to do with them. “...he thought I should tell you, and that I should see you both if you...if you could...if you would…” 

Cullen was stunned. It was last thing he’d expected her to say, of all the scenarios he ran through his head. In fact, he was certain he hadn’t heard her properly. “I...pardon?”

Wincing, she shifted uncomfortably before him. “I...I want to be with both of you. I…” 

“Maker’s breath,” he lifted his gaze, eyes shifting to the walls around them, as though seeking something that made more sense to cling onto, to anchor himself from the madness she’d cast at him. 

It was her turn now, to stare on in terror and apprehension, dangling at the precipice of anticipation. She felt her lip quiver, the tension building in ways that made her want to cry.

“I...don’t even know what to say,” he frowned, his hands running the length of his face. “I…”

“If you’re disgusted with me now, I understand,” she folded her arms over her chest, suddenly cold. “Perhaps it was stupid of me to ask.”

“No, I…” though the frown did not leave his face, he reached out hesitantly, brushing his knuckles gently over her cheek, testing the softness of the skin there. “I couldn’t think you were disgusting, my Lady. This is just...highly unusual. I’m not certain I…”

Closing her eyes, she leaned into his touch, finding a great deal of comfort in both his words and the gesture. His fingers slid back, tips grazing her ear, palm cupping her flushed cheek. His other hand lifted, mirroring his motions on the other side, her head now in his hands. A golden curl rebelled against the others, falling to his forehead as he leaned forward. It seemed as though he was going to kiss her.

Hesitating, he thought better of it, instead placing a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I think I need time to think about this.”

Considering she had been expecting outright rejection, hope brought her a considerable amount of cheer. It wasn’t everything she had hoped for, but it was something and that was a start.

Nodding, she felt a little relieved not to have been chased away with a pitchfork. “Of course. Please, take your time. I know this is unusual, and...and I know how crazy I sound. When Alistair suggested I talk to you about this, I thought it was mad myself, but...then I thought _why not?_ If we’re all agreeable, why not seize every chance to be happy? Andraste preserve us, the world has seen so much misery in the last decade. There are changes happening rapidly everywhere. With our entire lives being unusual, why not find unusual happiness in the midst of all this?”

Patiently, he listened, seriously consideration what she said. His hands fell to her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t think ill of you, or what you ask. I just need...some time. I..” He straightened, looking over his shoulder to the direction they’d come from. “Maker, I brought us out here for lunch, but I don’t know if I can eat now. This topic has left me a touch anxious.”

“I’ll just dip into the kitchen when I get back, like I had planned before. We needn’t go anywhere,” she smiled sadly. 

“Forgive me, but I’d like to walk you back to the castle and find some time alone.”

“If you’d like to just go, I can find my own way back,” she offered.

Scowling, he stepped away, hands sliding from her shoulders, leaving ghosting warmth behind where his hands had been. “While I...am rather eager for a bit of solitude, I’m not going to abandon you in the streets where it might not be safe. I’d feel much better if you’d let me walk you back first.”

Normally she would refuse his request, insisting that she could take care of herself. Here, she was so glad he still cared enough to fret over her that she gladly accepted. “Alright. Thank you, then.”

He would not lead her on his arm this time, instead maintaining a respectful distance. The silence between them was deafening, but at the very least not quite so terrifying as the walk out had been. When they returned to the castle, she was bid a polite farewell before he was gone.


	6. All You Need is Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen considers things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love some story feedback in the comments!

Cullen sat on the pew, staring up at the alabaster face of Andraste. When clouded by doubt or faced with difficult decisions, he found himself to be a creature of habit and routine, always seeking out his faith to lean upon. Yet even as he searched higher powers, his thumb ran circles over the edge of his lucky coin, warmed by his palm. He wasn’t entirely certain if this was a situation calling for luck, but it comforted him nonetheless. Perhaps all it served was to remind him of home; where he came from and who he was. 

He still didn’t know what to make of what the Inquisitor had proposed. He hadn’t expected anything like that when he’d resolved to finally tell her how he felt. Then to find that not only was she with another man, but that it was King Alistair! Of all the people she could have chosen, it had to be him.

Alistair. Back when he was only Alistair the Grey Warden, he’d saved his life and soul. Beset by demons and foulest of magic, he had been tormented for hours before he’d shown up with the Hero of Fereldan and defeated Uldred. At the time, he’d been furious they’d rescued the survivors of the circle, demanding that they all be put to death to ensure no abominations escaped. After being tortured for so long, he’d wanted them all dead. He wanted them all to pay for what Uldred had done.

Gregoire had the good sense to recognize true survivors when he saw them. Still, even at his command he could not still Cullen’s rage. As the Hero of Fereldan spoke to the the Knight Captain and First Enchanter, Cullen had stormed off in a fit. He could still recall how frightened and helpless he’d felt, finding abominations in the eyes of everyone he looked at. He had wondered if he were still trapped, and the entire rescue had been nothing more than an elaborate vision to toy with him.

Alistair had gone after him while the others spoke. Though at the time, introductions had not been made, and he had no idea who he was, or that the man had been a figure from his past.

...

_“Cullen?” he asked after him._

_Those golden eyes were mirthful, mocking at first. Cullen couldn’t bear to look at them. “What do you want?”he asked, voice thick with emotion._

_“I just...wanted to see if you were alright,” he said._

_“What do you think?” he hissed, whirling around to face the man. “I was just tortured by abominations! Do you...do you know what…” It had suddenly felt as though he were choking, the lump in his throat swelling as he lost all composure. Feeling emotional, frustrated, terrified, weak and helpless was all too much, and he could not wall back the shuddering sob that freed itself from his mouth. “Andraste preserve me,” he wept._

_Alistair set a hand on his shoulder, applying gentle pressure in an attempt to be reassuring. He let him weep out his pain, silent for a time. When Cullen bit back his tears and began to settle, Alistair couldn’t help but laugh. “This is all backwards now, isn’t it?”_

_“What?” his lip twitched, a scowl on his face._

_“You...don’t remember me, do you?” he pursed his lips. “I’m told I have a rather forgettable face.”_

_“No.” He was unamused of this sudden game of Guess Who._

_“Back then, I was the weepy one. You made fun of me, called me a baby. I was a bit of a broody lad, now that I think about it,” he snickered. “The joys of bastard childhood.”_

_“A...Alistair?” Confusion and weariness settled as his rage faded, setting a sort of haze over the man before him. It couldn’t have been the same Alistair! The one he’d see when he went into town with his family as a boy?_

_“Unfortunately, yes. I still think it’s funny how the blight brings us all together.”_

...

As distraught and weary as he had been at the time, he had been unable to recall much more of their conversation than that. Still, at the time, with things having gone so wrong, seeing someone from his idyllic childhood had been comforting in a way, a beacon of normalcy in a sea of madness. 

It was remarkable how their lives had come together and gone apart over the years. There had even been a time in Kirkwall after Alistair had become king that they’d run into one another. At that time he had been flustered by the Knight-Commander, and he’d been so deep in thought afterward that he hadn’t recognized Cullen as he approached. 

...

_“Your Majesty,” he greeted him as he passed. “Never anticipated that one.”_

_“What, your Knight-Commander being a cheery bowl of sunshine? Nor should you,” he retorted immediately, throwing his hand up in vexation. “That woman is....wait. Cullen?”_

_“Indeed. And faring much better since the last time we spoke,” he half-smiled, in a better position to appreciate running into his childhood acquaintance this time._

_“It isn’t hard to move up from rock bottom, now, is it?” Alistair smirked. “I’m glad you’re doing better. And did I hear you made Knight Captain?”_

_“I did.”_

_“Well, let me know when you get to Knight-Commander. Then maybe I’ll have someone nicer to speak to on these visits, seeing as viscounts tend to get their heads lopped off around here,” he sighed._

_Cullen bristled at this. “The Knight-Commander is doing what she feels is right. You haven’t seen as much of the dark side of magic as we have.”_

_Alistair, clearly too exasperated to get into another argument, held up a hand. “Yes, yes, maleficar everywhere, the King of Fereldan is a twit. I got the message. Now that I have, I really ought to be on my way before someone lops my head off.”_

_He extended a hand to the King. “Then I wish you well.”_

_The King took his hand amicably, giving it a friendly shake. “It was...quite nice to see you again, Cullen. Try not to go mad with the rest of them here.”_

_Decided not to press the conversation, he merely replied, “You as well, Ali- your Majesty.”_

…

Cullen closed his fist tightly over his coin, his mind racing through memories. Though they had not been best friends, Alistair had managed to pop up at nearly every major life event he’d experienced to date. It was uncanny. 

“Maker,” he muttered. Now the man was supporting the woman he loved into pursuing him. It all seemed daft, if not entirely mad. Yet here he was, actually considering it.

The Inquisitor was a unique woman, possessed of a good humor and cheer, a kind heart, and grace. By her good nature, he had ever found it odd that she was a feral hellcat on the battlefield, wielding her daggers with frightening precision, weaving between enemies like a reed bending in the wind. Not half bad at chess, either. Maker, everything about her seemed so perfect, and every fiber of his being pined for her. He ought to have been ecstatic that she returned his feelings. In a way, he was. 

He found himself wondering if it would really be so terrible to try what she was asking for. After all, if he declined, not only would he find himself heartbroken, but he would never really know what he was passing over. After being through so much, he really wasn’t certain what form happiness ought to take. It was hard to identify what one hadn’t really seen.

With a long, weary sigh, he peered down at his coin. Perhaps he would use a bit of luck after all. 

A coin flip it was, then.

“Alright,” he said aloud to himself. “Heads and I give it a try.”

He held his breath when he flicked the coin into the air.


	7. Shall We Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the ball has finally arrived.

The night of the gala arrived at long last, and the Inquisitor found herself in her provided accommodations with Josephine and an elven servant, both of whom were assisting her in getting ready in different ways. Josephine lounged on a chair in the corner, prattling off the names of the guests she ought to know, those she ought to know but pretend not to know, and those she ought to write off entirely. The elven girl pulled lacing through eyelets, setting the corset on Trevelyan.

“Oh, not too tight, please. I’m not used to wearing these things,” she winced at the trappings of the garment constricted, making it difficult to get in a deep breath.

“Inquisitor, the point of a corset is for it to be tight,” Josephine chided. “You really should lace it up properly.”

“Absolutely not. If anything happens in there tonight, I need to be ready to react, which I can’t do if I can’t breath. It was different when the Fereldans and Orlesians came to us. We had the bulk of our forces to keep an eye on them. I’m not going to let any of these fancy arses ruin this for me,” she huffed.

“Ruin...what? I thought you already hated these gatherings,” Josephine’s tone softened, becoming rather sweet.

The Inquisitor knew that tone in her voice. The woman was sharp, and she had slipped. She was fairly adept at the Game, after all. It was maddening that she had to play it now with one of her trusted advisors. Well, mostly trusted advisors. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Josephine about her affair with the King.

“Oh, I do. They’re horrid. But Fereldans and Orlesians are starting to get along. You know how hard we’ve worked for this,” she recovered quickly. She could play well enough when she put her mind to it. “So if one of them, any of them, tries to ruin this, I will tie them up and have them publicly spanked. Perhaps I’ll find paddles for everyone, and the guests can all take turns swatting at them. It would be like a party game.”

Where Josephine let slip a girlish giggle, the elven girl chortled out a short, snorting belt of laughter. It was a particularly loud and rancorous sound to come from such a small woman. the ladies Montiliyet and Trevelyan both turned to look at her, surprised at the startling break in her silence.

The girl was mortified, face turning scarlet against her pale skin. Before she could stammer out an apology, both agents of the Inquisition began laughing uproariously and in earnest themselves. The Inquisitor slung an arm around the girl, clapping her on the shoulder. “Maker,” she wiped a tear of laughter from her eye. “You’re alright, erm...what was your name?”

“Lonni, ser,” she spoke sheepishly.

“Lonni. Right. You’re an alright sort, I can tell.” WIth another friendly pat, she slipped away from the girl. “How well can you hold liquor, Lonni?”

The elf furrowed her brows, confused. “Pretty good, ser. Drinkin’s a good pasttime.”

“Good. We’ve got some time before the party. Have a glass with us. One glass won’t send you back tossed, and you won’t get in trouble,” the Inquisitor crossed to the table, pouring a third glass of wine.

“I-I...I don’t know, ser…” she fidgeted nervously.

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” she replied, handing the girl a glass.

Lonni accepted it, eyeing the thing skeptically as though it might turn into a snake in her grasp. 

The Inquisitor set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m not used to treating people like servants, and it makes me really uncomfortable. I don’t do it at Skyhold, and I don’t want to do it here, either. You’d be doing me an enormous favor to just treat me like a nobody. Isn’t that right, Josephine?”

Leaning on the arm of the chair, the ambassador couldn’t help but laugh a little. “It isn’t befitting of your station, but you do hate being waited upon.”

Lonni glanced between them, considering. After a while, she hesitantly raised the cup to her lips with both hands and took a sip. Face softening and eyes wide, she remarked, “That’s the good stuff, innit?”

“The King has been pretty generous with his cellars, yeah,” Trevelyan giggled, draining her own glass. “Alright. Lonni, let me gear up, and then would you help me get the dress on? I hate asking, but I never wear dresses and the damn things are far too much fabric for me. It’s like wrestling with a bed.”

“O-of course, my Lady!” Lonni nodded vigorously, clutching her wine glass now like a treasure that might be snatched away at any moment.

The Inquisitor crossed to the table, eyeing the myriad daggers and straps upon it. Plucking out a short and thin blade, she tucked it into its sheath sewn into her boot. Following this, a dagger was strapped to each thigh, one to her forearm, one thin one down her cleavage inside the sewn pocket of the corset, and on particularly thin one sheathed inside an ornate gold and pearl headpiece that enveloped where her hair was gathered in a golden cage.

Josephine studied her checklist, combing for anyone she’d forgotten to mention, indifferent to the display.

The elven girl watched the Inquisitor gear up, impressed and suddenly intimidated. “Them’s a lot of sharp bits, Lady Inquisitor. I...should I be nervous about trouble brewin’?” Adding quickly, she stammered, “I-I mean, with them Orlee’juns here, I figgered there’d be some.”

The Inquisitor turned to study the girl for a moment, eyeing her critically. “I’m always nervous about trouble brewing.” She stalked around the girl, eyes darting to her hips, between her legs, her breasts, slender limbs and thighs. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, the girl shied away slightly.

After a moment she gave an appreciative nod, then plucked a leather cuff from the table. Bringing it over to the girl, she pried the thing open, displaying the outer layer to her. “Right, so see the little latch there?”

The elf, still apprehensive, leaned cautiously forward to examine the thing. “Y-Yeah.”

The Inquisitor slid her thumb over it, a short blade popping out. “You slide it back down here, then pop the latch back to lock it down. If you see any trouble, you’ve got a way to defend yourself now. No one will think to ask you about a plain leather cuff. Give me your wrist.”

The elf, wide-eyed, extended her wrist for the Inquisitor to place the cuff on it. “Th-thank you, ser! This is...this is right nice of ye.”

“Well it’s right nice of you to help me put on this stupid dress,” she muttered dismissively, buckling the cuff into place. “There we are. Make sure it’s snug. You don’t want it twisted the wrong way ‘round when you need it in a hurry. When you find a moment alone, practice with it. When someone needs to be stabbed straight away, that isn’t the time to be figuring out how it works in practice.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the elf breathed, doting eyes upon the Inquisitor gleaming with admiration.

“Good girl.” Crossing to the table, she poured herself another glass of wine, then drained it immediately. Lips stained and with a flush in her cheeks, she gestured to the dress. “Alright. I’m ready to be smothered in fabric, now.”

…

Alistair hated this party.

At least the Inquisitor had lent him Josephine’s skills to ensure he did not completely embarrass himself. She’d helped with some of the decor, and gone over some of the more notable names with him. They all blurred together in his head in a giant, frilly, blurred nightmare. 

Not that any of them had much of a chance to stand themselves out in his head. He found himself flocked with Orlesian women, vying desperately for his attention. He might have even enjoyed the attention of so many beautiful, young women if he hadn’t suspected they were marveling at the novelty of the bastard Warden who’d ridden to the throne on the back of the Hero of Fereldan.

He scowled as he thought of her. Time had eased much of the pain, but it could never do away with the little pang of ache as she invaded his thoughts. How he had loved her. He could still remember the mischievous gleam in her eyes when she had found a new sort of trouble to get into. For someone who had been so deathly serious and sincere, she had had a go-big-or-go-home approach to letting off steam. And that night on the ship with Isabella...Maker.

Still, that was so long ago now, and she was becoming enshrouded by the mists of time.

“Her hair smells like earth and wind, makes you forget the war. The heart remembers an old song, and it sings it again for a new one. She would be happy for you,” a voice murmured beside him.

When he turned to look, there was no one there. Suddenly the entire moment was forgotten, and he felt lighter than he had before.

And he suddenly felt like dancing. He looked to the Inquisitor. There was no need to search her out, for he’d never lost her from his peripherals. He had been entirely stunned the moment she had walked into the room. In the burnt orange, cream lace, and warm pearls, she looked like a brilliant sky at sunset. Everything about her was warm and welcoming, and his arms ached to be around her.

Excusing himself from the gaggle of geese that had beset him, he approached the Inquisitor boldly. A dance couldn’t look like much. It would just look like he was playing that stupid Game.

She had been surrounded by her own admirers, though none dare stand in the way of the King. He politely cut in, flashed his most charming smile, and asked, “My Lady Inquisitor, would you dance with me?”

Those forested green eyes went a little wide, before a cup of mirth filled to the brim. Amused and knowing, she inclined her head. “I could not refuse a request of the King.”

Pardoning herself, she stepped out onto the dance floor amidst a flock of whirling dresses and fine and regal figures. His hand was warm at her waist, even through the thick material of the corset, his other enveloping her own small hand. As they danced they murmured low to one another, scarcely audible against the chatter and the music.

“Maker, you...you look incredible,” he beamed.

“Thank you, your Majesty. I admit, I am not accustomed to such finery. It will be lovely to _get out of this later_ ,” she couldn’t help the smirk tugging at her mouth.

He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately shut it. While they spoke with a touch more familiarity, it was too risky to drop the act entirely. He combed over his thoughts to pull more appropriate ones to surface, letting the heavy, lead-laden lulls of lust sink down into his belly to fuel a later fire. Damn it. This was just like playing the Game, but...perhaps a little more fun. “Merciless,” he muttered in complaint. “At any rate, I don’t see your Commander. I trust you’ve...spoken to him about security.”

Catching his meaning immediately, she winced. “Yes. He said he needed time to consider the extra security measures.”

“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. He’s been given another method, but there’s already a plan in place. It’s like someone handing you an apple, but someone else’s already licked it first. He’ll either realize the apple is still _very_ good and have a bite, or someone else will get all the apple to themselves and feel like a lucky bastard, which is literally true, come to think of it.” The metaphors deepened the more he spoke, and he took care not to get lost in them. This was really quite a bit easier when they could speak plainly like normal people.

“I don’t think he wants the apple after...someone else has licked it,” she whispered so quietly that Alistair couldn’t hear her speak. 

He leaned in a little to ask after again, but the turn of his head caught a rather familiar fellow approaching from behind the Inquisitor in time for the song to end. Stepping back, he placed a kiss to the back of her hand graciously, then straightened. “Don’t look now, but someone’s here for an apple.”

“What?” she asked utterly confused.

“Turn around, silly,” he grinned, bowing politely as another walked up to them. “Commander, so good to see you. I’m afraid I cannot indulge the Lady in another dance. Would you care to step in?”

…

Trevelyan’s eyes went wide as she turned to face the Commander, fingers curling together nervously. 

Cullen bowed his head, fingertips in his scalp above his neck. He did not look to her as he said, “I-if it pleases the Lady Inquisitor.”

Looking between them, she was stunned. To have them both so close, each an arm’s length away, each knowing well what they were stumbling into...she thought she might faint. Swallowing hard, her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “It would please me greatly,” she breathed.

At that, Alistair grinned at them both. “Then enjoy your evening, Commander. Inquisitor.” 

When the pair were left alone, the music already starting to play, Cullen extended his hand, eyes finally falling upon her. While awkward, he seemed so determined. Inside, she swooned at the sight of him, praying it all meant what she thought it might.

They danced, and she found him to be better at dancing than she had expected for all he had professed his dislike of it. “How is the evening finding you, Commander?” she asked hurriedly, a little too anxious for them to speak. She hadn’t seen him since two days prior, and it had begun to worry her. She even wondered if he’d retreated to Skyhold to escape her.

“It was terrible until now,” he smiled, eyes gentle, softening in her presence. 

“Oh?” She hoped no one would notice the scarlet heat upon her cheeks. 

He did not respond to her small, sighed noise. Instead, they danced in silence, she stewing in her anticipation of his answer to their former conversation. The longer he said nothing, the more she fret, until she was certain that worry was creasing her brow. She did her best to smooth it out and set it right. It made the song they danced to seem incredibly long.

Her attention shifted now, painfully aware of how close they were, the hand at her waist gentle, yet firm. His arms and touch felt so tender it seemed as though he were cradling her across the floor. His scent was spiced with the essence of wood and wheat, of earthen clay and heat. It wafted into her head, dizzying her with its potency. 

When the song ended, they bowed to one another politely, doing so more as an excuse to separate themselves from one another, each clearly affected by the other.

“I...think I need some fresh air. Would you care to join me, Lady Inquisitor?” he asked, a strain in his voice she was all too familiar with.

“Yes, I would,” she offered a weak smile, her heart racing.

They retreated from the dance hall, but not before she glanced at Alistair, who offered her a sideways glance and sly wink.


	8. The Hand of the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen wants to tell the Inquisitor how he feels about things, but an assassination plot rudely interrupts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AHEAD, FRIENDS. Smut returning in another chapter or two. Stay tuned!

The gardens of Denerim’s palace were not quite so grand as Halamshiral, but she found that, like with many things, there was a sincerity to the environment that Orlais lacked. Orlais’s entire culture revolved around the Game, and even something as simple as a garden was meant to say something. Here, the gardens were meant to be gardens. To use nature itself as a tool always seemed pompous to her.

The gazebo they had come to was a small thing, overgrown with blooming rose vines. It seemed rather intimate, small and tucked away as it was. She supposed that was fitting, as they were certainly about to discuss very personal matters. 

“My Lady,” Cullen started, finally breaking the silence they had fallen into as they had walked there. “I...have been considering your proposal.”

Curling her fingers, she placed a loose fist over her chest as though it had some power to still the beating of her heart. “Oh?” was all she could manage. It was so like him to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“I admit, it isn’t something I had ever considered before,” he continued. “Parts of it make me nervous, but I believe I would regret not trying. I care for you so much that I cannot bear to let you slip-”

She practically leapt into his arms, silencing him with her lips. At first, the Commander was startled, stiffening beneath her advances. However, he recovered quickly, and she could feel a tug at the corner of his mouth as he smirked. Enclosing her in his arms, he returned the kiss in earnest.

When it broke, her cheeks and nose were tinted rose, full lips drawn into a giddy smile. “I’m sorry...I’m impatient. You were saying?”

With a gentle laugh, he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. “No, it...was really nice. I think that summed up what I had to say for now.”

“For now?” she asked, unable to cease grinning like a schoolgirl. 

“I think that a situation like this calls for more in-depth conversation, yes,” his eyes fell to her lips. “Which I think would be more appropriate at another time. I thought it might be cruel to make you wait until we returned to Skyhold for my answer, as you seemed so nervous when we last spoke.”

“ _Maker_ ,” she winced at the thought of it. “I was certain you’d think I was horrid for asking. I wasn’t nervous. I was _terrified_.” Now she was in his arms, and he in hers. She had wanted him for so long, and now that it was happening it almost felt as though it weren’t real. “I...worried you would see my feelings for you as diminished because of Alistair.”

“I...wonder about it,” he admitted, brows furrowing. “I’m not accustomed to...I mean, this is so...different.” He brushed his knuckles over her chin, thumb tracing her bottom lip. “But I want to try. For you.” His lips lowered to claim hers once more.

A sound startled them both, each jerking their heads to its source. There was a scuffle in the garden, the grunts and groans of exertion and clash of metal telltale.

Looking back at one another, the Inquisitor sighed. “We’d better investigate that. And Maker help whoever I find there for interrupting this!”

Cullen nodded, appearing to feel less humor about the situation. He drew his sword, stepping out of the gazebo cautiously ahead of the Inquisitor, a hand motioning for her to stay back. She shot a withering look at his back. He was ever the templar, habit putting him in the front, instinctively protective. He doted like mother hen, and ofttimes it was endearing. In this moment, however, she was ready to fight, and would certainly not be hiding behind him.

As they emerged, they found Cole locked in fierce combat with several cloaked figures. The spirit seemed to be in a heightened state of panic, frenzied as he fought. It quickly became evident that the foes he faced were not trying to kill him. They were trying to remove his amulet.

Panicked now herself, she cried, “Hold on, Cole!” While the Commander immediately leapt into the fray to aid the boy, the Inquisitor plucked the dagger from her corset and quickly sliced off the bottom of her dress from the knees down. She couldn’t fight swimming in fabric, and leaping in like that would certainly get her injured, if not killed. 

Freed from the confines of the dress, she grabbed a second dagger from her thigh, joining the fight herself. The moment she did so, she was beset by a hooded man in armor wielding a greataxe followed by… a bloody _mage_.

The combined onslaught immediately put her on the defensive. The greataxe was slower. She could handle him easily were he alone, but the rapid fire spell-slinging of the mage kept her dancing out of harm’s way instead of attacking.

Cursing, she tore the rounded edge off her large dagger, whipping it hard at the ground. The shell burst with a small spark, smoke erupting from its shell. With the smokescreen in place, she dropped lower to the ground, rolling behind the now coughing man wielding the greataxe. Lashing out at the back of his leg, her blade slipped between panels of armor at the bend in his knee, severing the tendons there.

He howled, falling to the ground, making one last sweep backwards with his greataxe. Anticipating this, she hugged to his rear to avoid the blow. With a weapon with such long reach, it would have been far too difficult to try and roll out of the way and get clear. When they hit the ground, the smokescreen began to clear, and bolts of lightning shot over them. Taking both hands upon the dagger, she angled her blade downward, stabbing it in the gap between armor and helmet. There came a wet, strangled, gurgling sound, and then the man went still. 

The mage, seeing his comrade was dead, shot a full-strength bolt of lighting at the fresh corpse. With the Inquisitor’s hands still on the metal of his armor, it immediately traveled into her, sending searing pain shooting up her arms and sending white across her vision.

“Evelyn!” Cullen shouted nearby, in a panic. 

Gritting her teeth against the pain, it was not the first time she’d taken a bolt. It was a good thing she’d taken the time to order runed underclothes for the occasion, having expected trouble at the event. It would have been better if they’d protected against electrical attacks specifically, but she had opted for general protection from magic as she didn’t know what sort she would have to face.

Rolling onto her back, she brought her knees up and pushed quickly to her feet, unsteady at first and lightheaded, but moving. She advanced on the mage, who slung spells while backing away. Panicking, he thrust his staff forward, a broad band of fire erupting from its tip in a cone. She dropped down and slid underneath it, skinning and bruising the side of her leg against the ground. Then she sprang back up, tackling the mage at the waist rather brutishly. 

She landed atop him, wind knocked out of the fellow. Setting her foot on the hand that held the staff, she pinned it down. The man choked and gasped, desperately trying to refill his lungs with air. His free hand beat at her weakly, then clawed at her when that failed. Taking a hand, she brought her palm to his chin, pushing his head up and back. He managed to dig and scrape at her cheek, drawing blood, before she slit his throat.

The moment the blade finished its trek across his throat, she was up again, turning to evaluate the scene. Cullen was still engaged in fierce combat with a man with a sword and shield. Not having a shield himself, he was disadvantaged, though holding his own.

Cole still fought three figures, though he had managed to kill the fourth. The skirmish seemed odd somehow, as though the other three hadn’t been trying to get at him in earnest, save to snatch away the amulet…

And that’s when she saw it. There were lyrium shards stuck strategically in the ground like spikes. Glancing from them to the fluttering lips of two remaining mages half-heartedly attacking Cole, they were trying to bind him. With the shards in a binding circle and the mages chanting so, they had everything in place to take control of him the moment his amulet was removed.

Cole himself was frantic, all too aware of his situation. She could see the fear in his eyes.

“No!” she shrieked, charging forward. Catching her from the corner of his eye, the first mage turned to lash out, fire erupting from the end of his staff in a wide cone. This time she was not near enough to slip beneath it, and her arms came up to shield her face from the blaze. She could feel the heat drawn in and somewhat dissipated by her protective runes, even as it singed the hair of her arms and dress, stinging sharply at her flesh. 

The blast stopped immediately. Peeking over her arms, the man was just...standing there, wide eyed. He slowly fell to his knees, then over, blood pooling beneath his head. Behind him stood a determined elf girl that looked very familiar.

“Lonni!?” 

“I ‘eard ‘em plottin’, Ser!” she explained with a shout, turning to face the other mage. The moment the last mage turned to examine the new arrival to the battlefield, she would find Cole’s dagger at the base of her spine, severing it.

The last man attempted to run as the last mage fell, terrified at the failure of their plans. The man with the shield holding Cullen at bay ran after him, but not before delivering a rough shield bash, knocking him back.

Cole did not give chase. Instead he paced back and forth, muttering, “Sick, heavy, wrong. It twists, it turns, and it _hurts_. I’m too heavy. Too heavy. Not real, but heavy like chains biting at my insides. Heavy. Wrong. No, no, no, no…” Turning to the Inquisitor, he pleaded. “Break it. Please, break it!”

Recalling aiding Solas’ friend in the Exalted Plains, she knew immediately what he meant. The lyrium shards were caging him in, even if the amulet protected him from binding. 

Glancing quickly to Cullen, she wanted to be sure he was alright. Thankfully, he was rising back to his feet, though favoring his arm a little. Evaluating that he was in good enough shape, she quickly set to work on the crystals. Taking the tip of her dagger to it, she held the blade in place. With her other dagger, she gripped the handle with a full fist, striking hilt to hilt, hammering into one blade with the other like a makeshift hammer and chisel. “Lonni, the crystals! We have to help Cole!”

Lonni, in panic, looked to her wrist. The small blade, now streaked with blood, did not seem to be an effective tool. She instead scanned the area for something, anything, to crack into the lyrium. When she set eyes on the greataxe, she ran to it, reaching to pick it up. Her face twisted up as she lifted it, the thing clearly much heavier than she had anticipated. 

Cullen’s swordarm remained uninjured, and when he climbed to his feet he set to helping on yet another crystal.

Between the three of them, they managed to shatter each of the shards in fairly short order. The moment they did so, Cole stood straight, head tilting back and mouth agape as though he were gasping for air. “I am still me,” he announced, hand lifting to enclose protectively over the amulet. “They can’t take this and make me kill. You would have wanted to kill me, then.”

The Inquisitor raised a hand towards the spirit, concerned. “What do you mean? Do you know what they wanted?”

“Vapor and smoke clear, he isn’t moving. It’s going to be me next if I fail. Kill the bitch and the dog as a test to see; mother would be so proud,” he muttered, near frantic. “They wanted me to be a demon. They wanted me to kill Celene and Alistair to prove I was a demon.”

She immediately cast her gaze upward to the stained glass windows of the castle, as though some sign might be present indicating whether or not the King was safe. Cullen was at her side immediately, a hand on her shoulder. “Go check on him. I’ll search them for clues and stay with Cole.”

Trevelyan turned, a hand at his cheek. “Thank you,” she furrowed her brows in worry, abandoning the others to run as fast as her legs could carry her back to the ballroom. On her way back she passed several other party guests, each offering a startled gasp as she passed. For good reason as well; she was a fright to behold! Singed hair, a shredded and torn gown, blisters down her arms, smelling of burnt flesh and hair...she looked like she’d been dragged through the Fade by a rage demon.

When she burst unceremoniously into the dance hall, all eyes were immediately upon her; laughter and chatter silencing to hushed whispers. The Inquisitor visibly relaxed when she spotted Alistair alive and well, despite the fact that he was moving towards her rapidly, appearing extremely concerned.

Peering down at herself as if suddenly noticing her sorry state for the first time, she smiled sheepishly back up at the crowd. “You think this is bad, you should see the _other_ guys.”


	9. Boy Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Alistair have a chat about the Inquisitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming, next chapter! I know some of you can't wait for this one...

It had been at the insistence of the Inquisitor that the party continue. Alistair had thought it mad to allow things to go on when there had been such a major assassination attempt, but Celene had joined the discussion to reassure the King that such dark plots were an Orlesian past time, and ought to not spoil what was an otherwise fascinating party. Indeed, she had added, to continue the party was a way of showing the would-be assassins that their alliance was stronger than previously thought. Alistair had reluctantly agreed, if only to please Celene and to not display weakness before Orlesians. 

He could not take his eyes off of the Inquisitor. Nor could he help the sour expression on his face as he studied the blistering on her arms, the sickening smell of her burnt flesh assaulting his senses. It was at times like these he regretted his station, and wished he could just be Alistair the Grey Warden. That Alistair could have been fighting at her side. Maybe that Alistair could have prevented her injury.

When she retired to her chambers after promising to see a healer, he could not unwork the knot of worry in his belly. He found himself stepping out onto a private balcony for air in an attempt to relieve the pressure he heaped on his own shoulders, but it did precious little. The party continued on, and he hated it more now. The whole stupid affair had been his idea as a ploy to see her, and he figured something might happen. He had not previously considered how he might have been putting her in danger, and he was furious with himself for not having seen that earlier. 

A firm hand at his shoulder startled him. Glancing back at its owner, he met the kind gaze of an old friend. Offering him a half-hearted smile, he returned to the view out over the gardens. “This has been a little more excitement than I bargained for. If I keep biting off more than I can chew like this, I won’t have any room left for my foot.”

“She’s alright, Alistair,” Cullen moved to stand beside him, seeming weary. “This is the woman that defeated Corypheus and his demon dragon.”

“I’m not sure which of us you’re trying to convince,” he muttered.

“Neither am I,” the Commander winced.

Alistair rubbed at his face with one hand. They stood in silence for a moment before he peered over his shoulder, spying for any others in the vicinity. When he was assured there were none, he looked back to Cullen. “Are you...alright? With...things?”

Cullen appeared vaguely uncomfortable for a moment, a hand rubbing at his neck. “I was wondering when we’d speak about this. It seemed as though we ought to. I...Maker. This feels awkward.”

Alistair turned and leaned back against the railing, watching for anyone that might overhear their conversation. “It’s pretty strange, I know. I keep wondering if I’m mad for stepping into it.”

“Wasn’t this your idea to begin with?” he asked, also turning to watch the door, his voice low.

“Oh, entirely,” he admitted.

Cullen’s expression was unreadable for a moment. Slowly, his brows furrowed, and he cast an awkward glance at the King. “I...are you certain this is alright? 

“Oh, absolutely,” he flashed him a cheeky grin. “But don’t mistake that for knowing what I’m doing, because I don’t. If you step into this with us, we are all going to flail awkwardly and it’s going to be a mess.”

“Then why do this?” the Commander asked, genuinely curious. 

The King of Fereldan pursed his lips, “Well, because I think it’s going to make the Lady happy, for starters.”

“Yes, but will it make you happy? Will it pain you to see her with me? How can you be content with...with another man involved?” Cullen scowled, utterly confused. 

“If I thought I’d be miserable the whole time, I wouldn’t have suggested it. I’m not a masochist,” he snorted. “I mean, I care for her deeply, and I want her to feel the same about me. But that doesn’t exclude caring for you, does it? Or is the answer you’re looking for something more along the lines of ‘ _don’t touch my woman, I own her like I own this armchair. I’m a big, scary king, grrr._ ’”

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh a bit, though the tension of the moment kept his hand glued to his neck. “I...suppose I see your point. Maker’s breath. I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, well, you’re not alone there. There really ought to be a manual for this sort of thing. But while we’re talking about all this, I have to say...I’m glad it was you,” he half-mumbled. 

“You...are?” Cullen quirked a brow in surprise.

Alistair laughed nervously. “Don’t sound so surprised! Though we haven’t historically been very close, I’ve known you for a long time. Having you around feels sort of comforting.”

“I...thank you, your majesty,” Cullen’s expression softened, his lip curling into a crooked smile. 

“Oh, don’t be so formal. You’re making it _weird_ ,” he wrinkled his nose. After a brief moment of silence, he grinned in a manner most sinister. “Oh, erm. So I just had a horrible, terrible, naughty depraved thought.”

“Did you?” the Commander asked, concern darkening his features. 

“Yyeeesss,” he sang out in impish delight. “Do you think she’d like us both at the same time?”

“ _Maker’s breath, Alistair!_ ” Cullen shouted. Immediately, realizing he’d been a bit loud just then, the Commander turned a dark shade of red through to his ears, hand worrying at his neck. “I mean. Maker. That’s…”

Regret clouded his visage, and Alistair could only offer Cullen a sheepish grin. “That...okay, maybe that was a little too naughty. Probably shouldn’t have sprung that idea on you. I’m sorry, I am a bad, bad man.”

Shifting uncomfortably where he stood, he peered at his fellow countryman with eyes full of shame and doubt. Barely audibly, he murmured, “No...I’ll...it’s...quite a leap.”

Alistair lifted his chin, studying the Commander for a long moment. “It was just an idea. A naughty, naughty idea. You...don’t seem particularly thrilled by it and I wouldn’t want you to push yourself into something you aren’t ready for.”

“Maker forgive me, I think I want to. It sounds depraved, but I...I think…” he struggled to find the right words. “I think if we did, it would tell me what I needed to know, for good or ill.”

“Well, you’re here for three more days before it’s off to Skyho-” he abruptly stopped, immediately sulking. “I...only have three nights left with her. That’s...rather depressing. Anyway, we can wait until the next time we can find a way to visit with one another, or we can try to do this before you leave this time. Perhaps not tonight, however. I think between Orlesians, this party, the assassination attempt, and the scorched state of the Inquisitor, tonight would be best for resting and recovery. Enough excitement already.”

“On that, we agree,” Cullen winced. “But I think...it would be best if we did this before we left this time. If I don’t suddenly come to my senses and realize how mad this all is.”

“Let’s do it the last night you’re here. In the meantime, think more on it and if you reconsider, then I will have no hurt feelings should you wish to then decline. Make sure this is what you want,” Alistair set a comforting hand on Cullen’s shoulder, smiling affectionately. “For now, I’m going back to the party I’m supposed to be hosting, and try not to embarrass myself in front of the Orlesians more than I’m certain I already have. I'll try not to get assassinated in the process.”

Cullen scowled, "Maker, please do. She'd _slay_ me if anything happened to you."


End file.
